


All We Missed; All We Had *Sladiver Drabbles*

by Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee (orphan_account)



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:04:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Books_and_Cats_and_Coffee
Summary: A collection of short stories and drabbles for the Sladiver/Quilson ship. Requests accepted and welcome. First two chapters originally posted in 'A Curious Box of Scribbles'.





	1. Can't Live Without You, Can't Stand Beside You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver Queen never spoke about his regrets; Diggle found out on his own that Slade Wilson was one of them.

“Damnit, Oliver! You need to work with him, man! We can’t take down that judge alone!”

“I can’t.”

John Diggle would never forget the resignation in his friend’s tone. The pain that Oliver Queen was so masterful at hiding. He had never spoken of his past, his regrets, even when they came back to haunt him. Quite literally.

The masked stranger had appeared randomly one night, standing in the lair when Felicity and Diggle made their way down. They had panicked, he had reassured them he was not there to cause harm. He had set his mask aside, revealing the eyepatch and stoic features. He was a mercenary, his target the same corrupt city judge and Triad operator they had recently made their own target. He knew Oliver. Diggle had told the Australian they were willing to work with him. Then, Oliver had come down the stairs, taken one glance at their visitor and opened a drawer, pulling out a spare handgun and shot Slade Wilson twice in the chest. Then the archer left.

He never offered Diggle an explanation. Never said anything except that whispered ‘I can’t’ when John cornered him. They worked with Wilson anyway.

Then there was an assassination attempt on the DA, when Wilson backhanded Oliver in the abdomen, sending the archer flying into a wall after the archer had stopped him mid-murder spree.

Then had come the first time they actually spoke. Diggle was just a few steps behind the two men. Oliver limping, Wilson silent. John had left to answer a call, but he had heard everything they said.

“You don’t get to act like you’re a hero,  _kid_ ,” Wilson snarled.

“No,  _you_  don’t get to pin your fuck ups on me, you don’t get to blame me for everything,” Oliver responded coldly. They had both left.

Then had come bringing down the small Triad safehouse still erect, and publicly revealing the judge. Diggle had been at the safehouse when the detonations had triggered. Seen Wilson, without a second thought, pulling Oliver tight against his chest, kneel and bend over, hand protecting the archer’s head.

And the next day, with the problem solved, Wilson vanished and for the first time, Diggle saw how lost Oliver truly was. Neither of them would stay, neither of them knew how to live without hurting the other.


	2. Wounds Never Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (AU Season 5 Ending)  
> Some injuries are harder to live with than others, Slade put a sword through Oliver's chest he could never pull out.

The most painful part was losing what he never truly had. Of losing what might have been. To feel that sword stab into his chest. Of seeing the man he had never admitted his love for turn insane. To watch his slow descent to madness. To feel Slade slowly pull away, sitting up at night and barely speaking. To know that he, Oliver, was the one who had made this choice. Every time Slade grew a little more distant, the wound hurt a little more.

He could ever explain the greatest agony he had ever felt had never been from the performances of torture themselves, but rather the hatred behind the act, the abhorrence Slade had for him. It was as if the sword had been twisted cruelly inside him.

It had been standing before the Australian on a sinking freighter and being so afraid of what he’d do. Knowing, deep down, that he might never be able to cure this, thrusting an arrow into his eye. The pain in his chest had been so bad it hurt to breathe.

It had been seeing Slade again and realizing the only thing left was a psychopathic monster set on destroying him in every way possible. The wound ripped a little more.

It had been seeing his mother receive a sword through her heart by the man he had once privately laughed about introducing to her. He knew how much it hurt.

Oliver’s hardest battle had not been Merlyn or Kovar, not Reiter, Ivo or Fyres. It had been trying to convince himself to keep fighting when he was consumed by guilt and pain. Death didn’t seem to matter if it was at Slade’s hands. All he had to do was take the sword and press it a little further.

Then they had won. Slade was imprisoned on Lian Yu, Oliver’s friends insisted he was a hero, he didn’t feel like a hero, he never told them that. He never told them how much it hurt to know he’d never be able to forgive the man he had once wanted to spend eternity with. He kept it to himself, even after Slade escaped and nearly killed Oliver and Thea. Oliver never shared his frantic paranoia of always seeing blood staining his chest. He dreamed about it.

Over the next two years, the sword slipped out, the pain lessened, and Oliver struggled to move forward. The guilt was always there, knowing  _he_ had caused all of it. Knowing he had lost someone he’d never be able to replace. He rarely spoke Slade’s name, he never talked about him. It was a futile attempt, a half-hearted belief that if he tried hard enough, he could forget the man he had once called a friend. He never could.

But then, Adrian Chase had happened, he had taken them all to Lian Yu and Oliver had made the choice to go to Slade. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, more of an instinct he didn’t realize he had accepted until he slung the bag containing the Deathstroke armor onto the plane. Seeing Slade sane and healed didn’t just slice open the wound he believed healed; it hacked through his skin and ripped apart the stitches he had put there. Fighting alongside the now recognizable man brought back too many aching memories. He didn’t understand how it could hurt so much. To see Slade as he had been, it was a miracle and curse put together. Oliver couldn’t forgive him, Oliver couldn’t forgive himself. Who could he forgive? Adrian had rigged the island. It exploded because of the bullet he put in his head. Oliver had stood, holding onto his son and watching the fire and smoke rise into the sky. There were so many deaths.

Samantha.

Felicity.

Rene.

Curtis.

John.

Evelyn.

Quentin was so badly injured he could barely walk. Dinah didn’t talk for the next week. There had been another body, too, charred beyond recognition after shielding Thea from the blast. The armor had melted to the body, but the orange was still visible.

Night after night he could feel the spurting blood inside of him. The warm ooze of liquid down his skin. Oliver wondered how it was possible he was still alive when a sword had ruptured his heart.


	3. We Weren't Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver should have known better than to make a deal with his team.

The entire matter had gotten way too out of hand.

It all started with Evelyn complaining that Oliver knew enough about them to write a book and yet they only knew a sticky note’s worth about him. It wasn’t really an irritated complaint so much as a huff when Oliver had pulled one of his (as Thea and John called it) ‘silent treatments’ after the team heard him swear in some unknown language when out in the field. His only response to their answers had been ‘focus on the mission’. Oliver had given the teenager a small smile and informed her that a new record on the obstacle course warranted an answer to any one question. It was impossible, Oliver had reasoned to himself. He had personally set the record at six minutes, thirty seconds. So far, the recruits had only gotten as close as a few seconds under eight minutes.

Needless to say, he was both surprised and suspicious when Rene set a record of six minutes, seven seconds the next day. Oliver had actually checked the time keeper twice just to make sure. Hiding both emotions behind a stony demeanor, he had given Rene a short ‘good job’ and turned his attention to a recent threat. That was until Rene’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“So where’d you learn French, hoss?” slowly, the archer turned to look at him. The movement full of that precise movement that meant someone had just annoyed him. He also noticed that Evelyn and Curtis looked a little too interested in this conversation.

“What?” he asked, tone brisk.

“Yesterday,” Rene said, as if this explained everything.

“You did say a new record, without specification of _who_ ,” Curtis put in helpfully. Oliver glared at all of them but relented.

“It wasn’t French,” he said briskly. “It was Maori, a language spoken by tribes in Australian and New Zealand.” They stood there expectantly. “I was taught by a, um, friend.” They didn’t move. “Move, patrols, now.” He snapped, but he could had sworn they were grinning as they turned and left.

**XxXxX**

He was certainly not expecting Curtis to set a new record the next day. In fact, he had to check the time keeper several times to make sure he had read the _5:41_ correctly. By now he was just beginning to get a bad feeling about the whole thing. Oliver was still trying to figure it out when Curtis asked him the seemingly innocent question; “were there any good guys on the island?” Oliver hadn’t meant for his expression to soften as he thought about the question.

“Yeah,” he had answered. “A couple. A few became friends. One of them” - _became something more-_ “he was the one who taught me a little Maori, among other things.”

It took him a half day of searching before he figured out Curtis had managed to hack the time keeper and set it to count seconds more slowly. A very irate Oliver set all the recruits on a particularly bruising exercise and gave a few more bruises in their combat training. They suffered through a week of harsh training and not a single question was raised about his past again. No one got less than a seven-twenty after that.

**XxXxX**

It was nearly two weeks later when Evelyn managed the score of _6:23_. This time, the time was believable and Oliver asked Felicity to check the time keeper before and after. Hiding his pleasure at this accomplishment, he suggested she take the rest of the night off.

“Do I still get a question?” she asked. He frowned for a moment, but she was looking at him so innocently -in fact Oliver was fairly certain her eyes were wider than usual. “I didn’t cheat, and it’s just a simple question.” She added. He mumbled something that could pass as a ‘yes’ though really Oliver should have been forewarned by her mannerisms. Instead, he focused on setting aside his fresh batch of arrows and taking a swig from his water bottle. “Was the Maori guy your boyfriend?” He swallowed a little too hard and the water went down his airway, causing Oliver to burst into a coughing fit. Voice hoarse, he managed a single word.

“What?” Evelyn still managed that angelic, innocent expression. Little devil.

“I was just wondering if you were dating.”

“We _weren’t_ dating,” Oliver replied, hoping his tone would put an end to the conversation. It was true, dating referred to going out for dinner or long talks over coffee. Back then, they didn’t have that. Maybe there was something else in his voice, but the girl didn’t give up.

“Can I rephrase that?”

“No.” She did anyway.

“If he were here right now, would he be your boyfriend?”

“Alright, everyone to work. Obstacle course record questions are off the board,” Oliver said, a little too loudly, he ignored the snicker from behind him. Instead, he made an excuse and left the lair, glancing down at his phone as it buzzed when he entered the elevator.

 _Still on for tonight?_ He smiled to himself, typing out a quick reply.

_Yeah. Nine?_

_See you then, kid._

 

_"If he were here right now, would he be your boyfriend?"_

Well, he hadn’t told her no.


	4. Room 516 Sumerland Hotel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day he wouldn't flinch away from the slightest touch...  
> Rating: Mature  
> Set: Season 2 AU  
> Tags: mercenary!Deathstroke, secret relationship

Room 516 Summerland Hotel, 10 Moongap Lane, Starling City; the green archer slipped through the window noiselessly, landing catlike on the carpeted floor. His eyes scanned the darkened room as he straightened slowly, feeling for another presence. He knew the other was there, even if he could see him.

“Arrow,” the voice rumbled from the shadows to his left, and the archer cast a glance in that direction, the shadows obstructing his vision. He could see the body in his mind, broad shoulders, a little shorter than himself, muscles hard edges and lines underneath his skin.

Arrow took a few steps forward, leaving the bow by the window, slipping his quiver over his head. He could hear the almost silent noises of movement as the other man drew nearer. The archer didn’t wait. His first strike was easily blocked, but he did not give in, following with a left hook. As the other man blocked, Arrow was forced to defend himself from a straight jab and cross. He used the chance to duck down, tackling the man’s legs and bringing them both down. The carpet muffled the noise of their landing. The man recovered first, but as he came up to his knees, Arrow, still on his back, shoved both boots into the man’s hips, creating a barrier between them. He feels something encircle his ankle as his opponent suddenly falls backward, one leg trapping Arrow’s. In a few seconds, the hold would become excruciating, and quickly, the archer rolled completely over, chest passing over the carpet to loosen the other’s arm. They fought by feel and sense alone, there was no clear light to see by.

Before they could move apart, Arrow flung himself atop the other man, knee sliding into his ribs. His wrist and shoulder were caught and the force of his attack was turned against him, throwing him to the other side where his opponent could pin him. Idealistically. Arrow had prepared for such a move, and as it happened he moved onto his side, shrimping away and managing to get an arm around the other man’s neck. He didn’t have an opportunity to finish the choke before he was pitched forward. Arrow rolled into a crouch with well-practiced ease. He didn’t even pause. Kicking, hitting, he launched himself back, every ounce of fury in him boiling over into his moves. The man matched him, fought back, several strikes bruising Arrow’s body. A few of his own strikes landed, slamming against armor satisfyingly. The man ducked under one of Arrow’s kicks, catching the leg. The archer twisted free, kicking with the same foot, slamming it into his stomach without turning. He heard a grunt and spun back around just as a fist connected with his ribs, then a knee to his stomach, driving the air out of his lungs. 

“Good?” he asked, almost close enough to touch. Arrow straightened the rest of the way, his breathing returning to normal. He reached up, fingers catching the edge of the black and orange mask he could barely see. Deathstroke didn’t stop him from pulling it off. Arrow took a step closer, one hand coming up to the other’s hip as he let the mask drop next to them.

“I think so,” their faces moved closer until Arrow closer the distance, lips locking together. Deathstroke’s hands closed around his waist. Arrow’s tongue slipped inside his mouth, exploring and demanding before the archer pulled away, sucking his lower lip in a slow, teasing way before moving his mouth along Deathstroke’s jaw, his path downward soon intercepted by armor. He gave it a commanding tug and the mercenary’s hands moved to undo his top with precise movements. Arrow gave a noise of appreciation as he felt the taunt, powerful body, kissing along the shoulder and neck. Several times, he would bite down, sucking at the skin and undoubtedly leaving a dark mark. He only regretted never being able to see them.

The other man’s hands hovered over his own body, and wordlessly, Arrow paused, giving a nod he knew the man would see, even in the near dark. He felt the zipper slid down, green leather pulled away from his body almost reverently and set aside. A hand came up to his face, brushing past his cheek and removing the green mask, tossing it into the beam of light so that Arrow would be able to find it later. They both kicked off their boots, and Deathstroke made quick work of Arrow’s pants. In a moment, they were both rid of armor, clothing and hidden weapons. Arrow steered them towards the bed. He shifted to move up against Deathstroke, hands resting on the broad shoulders until the mercenary moved back to lie down, the archer on top of him, kissing his lips with a steadily growing passion. Arrow let himself fall into the moment, feeling the powerful body move under him, tasting the coppery hint of blood from a lip split in their fight or bitten too hard.

Coarse facial hair scraped against his skin, as the mercenary shifted just enough to kiss Arrow’s chest, tongue following the ridges of a scar until the archer moved further back, and the mercenary let his head fall to the mattress, watching the other through half hooded eyes. In a moment, he could flip the entire situation, Deathstroke was older, more experienced and in most ways, better. But they both knew he wouldn’t.

It was a peculiar relationship between them. Neither knew who the other was under the mask. Outside of this room, they were not allies. One was a vigilante, fighting for the good of his city, the other was a mercenary. They had fought against each other multiple times, neither one emerging the definite victor. But the hotel room was different. Here was where the rest of the world fell away, where it was just the darkness and the two of them. Just control and as close to normalcy as either could reach. Arrow could never describe why he found himself drawn to the mercenary. But there was something that he _understood,_ something other people couldn’t.

Arrow moved lower, mouth tracing the lines of Deathstroke’s body, kissing over his abs and pausing to bite the sensitive skin at the top of his thigh, drawing a soft hiss from the usually stoic mercenary. The archer moved with agonizing meticulousness, but Deathstroke remained impressively still, even as Arrow’s mouth passed along his rapidly hardening cock. The archer’s tongue teased the tip before he moved suddenly, taking almost half of his length. The mercenary hissed, hands twitching towards Arrow’s shoulders before closing into tight fists, returning to his side as Deathstroke forced himself to relax. The archer pulled off, tongue following a vein and the mercenary exhaled, knowing Arrow was smirking even if he couldn’t see. A moment later, the wet heat was back, moving with skillful bobs, sucks and the occasional assistance from the archer’s hand, fondling his balls or holding high on his shaft. Deathstroke’s soft groan was not quite muffled, and one hand slivered up the archer’s back, pausing at his neck. Arrow froze, his movements stopping and Deathstroke’s hands returned to his sides. The archer’s soft noise was almost apologetic.

The mercenary was close when Arrow pulled off with one last careful tease of teeth over the silky skin. He pushed himself up on his knees to bring their lips together, hands holding the mercenary’s sides. Deathstroke could feel the archer’s own interest against his stomach and shifted his abdomen as much as he could. The body atop him shifted impatiently, barely breaking off the kiss as the archer moved into a better position. Before he could, the mercenary’s hand brushed over his hip, drawing a barely perceptible flinch that Deathstroke felt.

“Bed table,” the low voice growled. Arrow nodded, reaching across to feel the small the small packet next to the pump top container. The packet ripped open, foil discarded somewhere as the archer rolled the condom over the mercenary’s cock, one hand running over the full length after. There wasn’t any hesitation after that. Deathstroke moved himself to sit up and Arrow slowly slid over him, hands holding on to his shoulders for an anchor. Twice, he paused, and the mercenary struggled to not move, hands hesitating behind his back, but not quite touching. The archer let out a soft moan at the feeling of being filled in such a way, forcing himself to relax. He rocked up onto his knees trying to find a rhythm and gradually, the mercenary moved his own body to match his movements.

Arrow couldn’t let go of his shoulders without falling over. Deathstroke knew his imbalance but didn’t attempt to shift their position. It was something they had never actually discussed, but the mercenary had understood without words. Every rush of panic at being pinned, every nervous twitch and hands touching his bare skin. It had led to Arrow’s avoidance of most relationships, whether casual or more serious. And he supposed it was strange that it was here he felt safest. Strange that it was the mercenary Deathstroke who treated him with a gentle patience, still far from coddling.

The archer sped up their pace, feeling a familiar wave as the angle was just right. A warm hand moved across the mattress to his knee, its progress slow so as to not startle him. Fingers brushed up his thigh, lightly touching but always present, moving between them to wrap around Arrow’s shaft, beginning to move in time with their pace.

On one particular thrust, the mercenary twisted his hand and drew an almost needy noise from the back of Arrow’s throat at the sudden wave of pleasure. Deathstroke drove his hips up, and the archer’s hands shifted to the headboard, knuckles turning white. He dipped his head, claiming the mercenary’s mouth and muffling both their noises. Hot skin slapped against hot skin, sound almost obscene in the dark.

Deathstroke was the first to reach his climax, moves becoming erratic as the archer’s body shuddered and tightened around him. But for Arrow, it only took two more twists from the mercenary’s hand, the friction tipping him over the edge. Almost immediately, the archer moved off, rolling to the side of the bed. He heard the small rustle of movement as Deathstroke disposed of the condom. There was silence, the mercenary not mentioning his surprise that Arrow had not already vanished. Every time, he seemed to hesitate a little more before running off.

“You told me once that we weren’t dissimilar,” the archer spoke suddenly. Deathstroke, reclined on one elbow, didn’t reply, no understanding where the conversation was headed. He heard the rustle of a blanket as Arrow turned his head to look at him. “Have you ever made a promise to someone. A promise to be better, then all of the sudden, it doesn’t seem like you can keep it.”

“Promises can be difficult to keep,” the mercenary replied. “Sometimes, what is necessary does not always seem right.” He had noted the decrease in the archer’s kill count since the Undertaking and was fairly certain what this question was about. “This is a broken city, sometimes, morals have to bend in order to do the right thing.”

“But how do you know what’s worth it?” he whispered, voice barely audible. He didn’t know why he was bringing the matter to the mercenary, there simply didn’t seem to be anyone else he could ask.

“You have to trust your instincts there,” Deathstroke said simply. “Sometimes, you might be wrong. That’s unavoidable.” The quiet between them was so long, he would have thought that the archer had fallen asleep. But his breathing pattern was still too fast. Suddenly, he was upright, like a startled animal, like every past time he darted off into the night. But this time, he paused, kneeling upright on the bed, before moving forward and kissing the mercenary. He was surprised when Deathstroke responded gently, and one hand brushed past his cheek. This time, the touch didn’t draw a flinch. Then, as if afraid of the man’s reaction, he was gone clothes pulled on and weapons collected as he leapt from the window.

Arrow was hurt. Deeply damaged in a way that Deathstroke wasn’t certain he could ever truly recover from. It was rich, he mocked himself, coming from the stone-cold killer who’s only loyalty was money. Maybe someday, they could both piece their rough edges together. Or maybe someday, they would kill each other in a fight.

But deep down, the mercenary knew he could never really hurt the archer. And he wondered where those emotions had stemmed from in such a casual fling.


	5. Two Broken Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guilt ravages his mind, cobalt eyes haunt his dreams, until the day he sees them again. 
> 
> Rating: Teen  
> Set: Season 5 (au 5x23 and onward)

We were two broken souls; cast adrift in this world.

_There is little resistance against the sword as he plunges it through skin and bone. He draws back the bloodstained blade and watches the small body crumple and collapse. Cobalt eyes staring skywards. But even through the rage he hears the scream of grief, of anger, of hate. Sees the tears fall unchecked from cobalt eyes that are the same as those in the now dead parent. Realizes it was the first time he had seen him cry._

Without you beside me; who would fix my holes?

_He stares through the bars of his new prison, mind a foggy mess, glaring his hatred at the retreating form, barely seeing the hunched shoulders and stone-cold expression. Someday, he will make him hurt. Make him bleed. Soon, he gets his chance. But his hatred is a dull ache now. He is nothing more than a monster._

We were two sinking ships; sent out to sea.

_His thoughts become clear. His hatred changes to self-abhorrence. At night, he dreams of cobalt eyes and messy hair. In the daylight, he thinks of brown eyes like his own, of features like his own. He cannot escape knowing those he loved the most, he hurt the greatest. His prison becomes an obstacle to the death he so longs for. There is nothing he can do to relieve the crushing guilt._

In the dark, in the cold; under stars and eclipse.

_Why did he come back? A flame in his all-consuming darkness. The blue eyes stare at him, tinged with hope, but also fear. Yet he stands there in front of him, holding the mask of horror and blood. Trusting entirely. He wants to apologize, but there are no words. He does not deserve forgiveness._

We were two fallen soldiers; we never did as told.

_They walk together side by side, like ghosts of two lost men years ago. He is content to follow, wherever the cobalt-eyed archer leads._

The battles are savored; the memories not consoled.

_The devil’s name is Adrian Chase. He has taken those who mattered most, taken an innocent boy and his mother. The archer has a son. He wonders how long he has known._

We were two wayward birds; off course from the storm.

_How difficult was it, for the devil to find the monster’s own son? When he already hated the name of his father, how hard was it to corrupt him entirely?_

Trapped in Purgatory; with weapon and words.

_If only they won something today. The explosions rip through the island as he stares into the eyes of his son. Brown eyes full of repulsion. The bomb explodes; the monster throws himself forward to shelter his child, the blast throws him back. If there is a god, the monster will forever curse Him for saving his life, instead of his son’s._

We were two shards of glass; violent, brutal, inexcusably.

_His body is torn and burned, but no pain is great enough to drown out that which burns inside him. He stumbles through blood and carnage, there is no life. There is only death. Death of the evil, death of the good, death of the innocent. On the sand by the sea, he finds him, body racked with tears, holding the still, small body._

Unable to be truthful; apart from the masse.

_There are so many graves. He lays his son underneath dirt with no marker for his body. They work side by side; some bodies are unrecognizable. Others could almost be sleeping. The archer lays the boy next to his mother. He holds the body close, not allowing the monster to touch it._

We were two lonely shadows; our hearts stood idle.

_It is his turn to lead. They leave the bodies behind, travel in a boat until the harbor comes to sight. Not a word has been spoken between them. Not a tear has fallen since stepping onto the boat. In China, no one knows their faces, they are overlooked. They hideaway and the world thinks them dead._

Too shattered to die; pierced full of arrows.

_The days are full of silence. They stay close, afraid to move away, but never touch each other, never brush sleeves. The bed they share is split by a void of empty space between two bodies. The archer does not speak, even a month after it all. His only sounds are at night. The whimpers that escape his lips as he sees the horror night after night. The monster cannot comfort him, his own dreams are filled with blood and fire. His own haunts startle him awake. He startles in the night, a noiseless cry in his chest. The curtains are thin, and lights flicker off of the ceiling above, casting shadows on the white plain. The voices from the city cannot touch the cold, lonely prison he is locked in. He lays there, frozen, aching, broken. The sheets move beside him, warmth touches his hand. Maybe the key to his cell. He moves, the fingers do not pull away, and he holds on. They lie together in silence, watching the lights of the ceiling, hands tightly gripped together._

We were two lifeless specters; too damaged to cry.

_“Alaska?” The cobalt eyes were dead. Like those on the women when she lay on the ground, blood pumping from her chest. The voice is hoarse from disuse. Words are painful to speak. But the hand is still in his._

We had lived a lie; we had lost our lives.

_“Alaska.” It is hard to move on. To walk further from the graves. But they hold on to each other, and he will not let go._

We are two lost souls, cast adrift in the sea,

We drowned together, broken down in misery,

You held my hand in the dark, in the cold, empty night,

You were dead, I was dying,

But souls live on for eternity.


	6. Quick Update

Author's Note

This is not specifically targetted to my Sladiver fics, more a broad notice for all future works. I have briefly mentioned that requests are more than welcome, and I will do whatever I can with it (not always great). This was recently brought up by a reader and also the issue of  _where_ the heck those would be sent in. Since comments can get a little messy and email is just...eh. I recently set up a Tumblr page (blog? account? something.) which any prompts you feel like sending in are welcome.

Warning; I am still trying to figure out how Tumblr works, the first ten minutes was just muttering goddamnit and what the fuck, please be patient.

Thanks again to all readers, good luck with your own writing and have a good night/day.

 

https://books-and-cats-and-coffee.tumblr.com

(I will not admit it took me four minutes to find that link)


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